Joshua Traxon, a former L.A.-based rock star, and B-list reality show fixture left L.A. for small-town Vermont hoping to write his memoir. Escaping a past filled with lies, reckless drunken behavior, salacious backstage tales, and death will push him to his limits, especially as he recounts it on paper for the world to read.
Josh and his frenetic pug Pickle have a routine: Josh drinks away his pain while struggling to write, and Pickle reminds him that he's still alive, with his infectious personality and boundless love. When Josh meets Laurel, his new neighbor, along with her precocious young boy, he'll struggle with that routine as he falls in love, attempting to evolve and reconcile with his boorish former persona. A tragic death that's haunted him for years will fight to pull him back to the edge of despair, but not before Laurel's own life-changing secret knocks Josh off his feet-and deeper into a bottle. Only a journey home, where he'll unearth a forgotten childhood relic, may save him from himself. If it's not too late.
Joshua Traxon, a former L.A.-based rock star, and B-list reality show fixture left L.A. for small-town Vermont hoping to write his memoir. Escaping a past filled with lies, reckless drunken behavior, salacious backstage tales, and death will push him to his limits, especially as he recounts it on paper for the world to read.
Josh and his frenetic pug Pickle have a routine: Josh drinks away his pain while struggling to write, and Pickle reminds him that he's still alive, with his infectious personality and boundless love. When Josh meets Laurel, his new neighbor, along with her precocious young boy, he'll struggle with that routine as he falls in love, attempting to evolve and reconcile with his boorish former persona. A tragic death that's haunted him for years will fight to pull him back to the edge of despair, but not before Laurel's own life-changing secret knocks Josh off his feet-and deeper into a bottle. Only a journey home, where he'll unearth a forgotten childhood relic, may save him from himself. If it's not too late.
She must have recognized me. She was in that garden for an hour and had looked over her shoulder thirty, maybe forty times. Half of her glances included a smile. One was followed by the dropping of her gloves, moving as if she might come say hello. She didnât. Instead, she wiped sweat from her forehead and sipped blush wine from a glass with ice cubes. Finally, she waved. Rock on.
We were in Central Vermont. The East Village may boast celebrities on every corner, but not here. So, when a guy with my history moves in, youâre going to notice. She had but was playing coy. For the moment, I was alright with that.
The early June sun and scurrying breeze had most of the cul-de-sac tending to their lawns, pools, and landscaping. Mowers roared, weed whackers whined, and dogs barked as they chased sweaty humans around their lawns. My canine pal, Pickleâa twenty-pound pug with the energy of a world champion tumbling squadâsurveyed the neighborhood and its inhabitants, hoping to soon drench them in slobber. He was most interested, as was I, in the gardening beauty a hundred yards away.
âWe just got here, buddy. Letâs soak it in for a bit,â I told him. He tilted his head, and one-third of his tongue stuck through his crooked little choppers.
I should have been inside writing instead of gawking. Half the reason I migrated here was âthe book.â But the weather was sublime and my motivation had dwindled from paltry to zero percent. It didnât need to be on paper yet anyway. It was all safely tucked away in the nogginâ, ready to be unleashed soon enough. Iâm no writer, but a hefty advance and my name on something other than a bunch of crappy songs written years ago sounded appealing. Plus, after everything that happened, time to get the hell out of L.A.
Los Angeles gets a bad rap, so I wonât pile on, but I was more than ready for a change. There are few natives thereâeveryone is from someplace else. Half the people you bump into on the street are more famous than you. The ones that arenât want to know how you can help them be. Eh, I said I wouldnât pile on. Vermontâs nice. Thereâs a familial quality to it, all New England really, thatâs missing in Southern California.
I could have brought my laptop outside, busted out pages as the mowers whirred, sipping on an IPA, all the while glancing across the street like some creep. She hadnât been shy about staying in my eyeline, so it wouldnât be that creepy. Pathetic, yes. Pickle sure wanted to say hello. He whimpered and wiggled his curly tail every time she looked over, which he noticed despite the distance. The dog could spot a pinto bean atop Mount Everest, and I could barely read my driverâs license from a foot away.
âSoon enough, Pick,â I told him, which sent his wrinkled, apple-sized head tilting in the opposite direction and his tongue back into his mouth.
It was always possible that she didnât know me and was just being curiously friendly. The previous owner of the house, Bob, lived there for twenty-five years from what I heard at the closing. Anyone new in the neighborhood would draw stares. Maybe she heard about âthe incidentâ on the TV show and was concerned her tranquil cul-de-sac would be turned into a den of debauchery, sending property values into the dumper. I had no such plan, so those fears would be unfounded. Of course, my relationship with booze left the door of possibility open.
Her house was smaller than mine, but the exquisite landscaping made it look more impressive. I paid a couple fellas from Craigslist to plant a few bushes and tune up the lawn before I moved in, but there was no comparison. She had rose bushes, rhododendrons, and begonias all exploding with pinks, reds, and yellows. And her grass was greener than one of those awful smoothies I used to drink at the gym back in Cali.
Little Miss-Yellow-Sundress-Pulling-Weeds caught me staring and smiled. I waved to her as my other hand stroked Pickleâs head. He whimpered, still wondering why we werenât frolicking with the beautiful woman across the road. Itâd be douchey if I didnât go say hello soon, but I also didnât want to go in guns blazing. Central Vermont, with its clean air, quiet streets, forthright people, and relaxed pace was dead nut opposite of Los Angeles. I wasnât about to muck up the flow. Plus, Iâm not a kid anymore and my body has serious objections to standing up too fast.
This was the second time Iâd seen her outside since I moved in, and so far, no sign of other life. No lover, no children, no pets. They might all be playing Xbox inside and chewing rawhides and whatnot, but early indications were that she lived in the quaint little shack all by herself. If the book I was supposed to be writing were a novel, and not whatever itâs yet to be and was paid too much money to scribble, I could pen some fiery thrillerâThe Woman in the Yellow Dressâshe lures people into her picturesque home with sultry smiles, boxed wine, and pleasantries, only to poison them and use their remains as garden fertilizer. That was probably already a book. Had to be. And that was precisely why I was writing a memoir and not a novel. The only original idea Iâd had in years was to up and leave L.A. almost overnight.
Shit, that wasnât even original.
I chose Vermont because Iâd always loved it as a child. I grew up in Connecticut, and at Christmas, my mother would take us to see cousins in Rutland. I loved the powdery quality of the snow and the way it clung to the trees, covering nearly every visible surface. Snowmobiles filled the streets, and nobody was ever yelling. People smiled, knew each other by name, even shook hands out of respect. Those winter days were filled with us kids drinking hot cocoa and sledding. The adults tipped small bottles into their coffees, laughing loudly around a wood stove.
I found the house by sheer luck. One of my band roadies mentioned his father was selling his Vermont property so I looked at the pictures online and did a quick video tour; it was just what I wanted. I made the deal through email and flew in for the closing. I shouldâve cased the neighborhood a bit because who the hell knew what kind of backwoods loons might be living next door. Forensic Files reruns occasionally flitted through my head, but so far it seemed safe enough. Then again, how would I know? Pickle was no help because Charlie Manson could walk up to the front door with a Satanic Bible, a battleax, and a flame thrower and heâd still lick the dudeâs skin off as his tail went in two hundredâmileâperâhour circles atop his wiggly butt.
I decided to head over and say hello. Whatâs the worst that could happen? A whole hell of a lot, especially if you had read that awful, The Woman in the Yellow Dress. I tied Pickle to his run, because he can be a bucketload to take in at first if youâre not a dog person. Heâd climb straight into your mouth if you werenât careful.
The little bugger looked at me like Iâd just strapped him into the electric chair when I clipped his run onto his collar. âHoly smokes, and I thought I was pathetic. Well, you know what, pal. We're a package deal. If sheâs got a problem with you then she has one with me. Letâs go,â I instructed, unclipping the tether, sending him into spastic circles.
Pickle bounded across the lawn, careful not to travel more than a few feet ahead of me, as always. He relished outdoor adventures but wanted me close by to experience them with him.
âShe may be more of a cat person, buddy,â I told the panting pooch. He looked up at me but continued prancing forward, tongue stuck out like an Olympic ski jump.
Man, I love that dog.
Josh, a semi-famous celebrity, moves to a small town, finds romance, and sorts through his issues to find inner peace.
I really wanted to love this book and it started out good. Then the cracks started forming.
I thought this would be mostly a romance, with some darkness. But then a dozen other themes took center stage and the spotlight became a floodlight. I guess the plotâs point is âchanging oneself to a better version,â but there are streamlined, yet impactful ways of achieving that message. Change the romance to a friendship, condense or eliminate some of the plot threads and the story can still happen. But when everything is in focus, itâs hard to know where to look.
One thing I appreciate is the first-person male POV, which isnât popular, especially in the romance-y genre. Josh has some witty/relatable remarks, such as:
Youâd figure forty or fiftyish years would be enough time to work through the basics of having a meal without injuries.
I know the reason why Josh uses words like âdoucheyâ and âobfuscation,â but that muddled vocabulary makes his narration insincere and it takes me out of the story. I think it should have been silly and grounded, or erudite and literary, not both. Also, Josh apologizes/explains some of his personality traits before Iâve even had a chance to see him in action. Iâd like to judge his character for myself.
I donât believe Josh and Laurelâs romance. Laurelâs personality isnât tangible and many of her traits were stated and not proven. Humor, kindness, adorability, etc. have to be seen and not left in the âbelieve meâ category. If there were more conversations between the two about regular things and if their interactions had a relaxed tone, it wouldâve worked better. As it is, thereâs a tinge of tension or sadness in each interaction and they werenât allowed to just Be.
I adore Pickle, even though I hate dogs in real life. The imagery of him standing at a window with his paws on the sill is so adorable.
The general writing isâŚa choice. Weâve got dialogue tags like âchirped,â âjabbedâ and âproclaimed.â âChortledâ is used multiple times. People shout when they donât need to, or exclamation points arenât used, so Iâm surprised to discover that theyâre shouting. Then there are the odd descriptions like â[Laurelâs] mouth erupting in teeth whiter than the Andesâ and â[Laurelâs] eyes leaked down onto her cheeks.â
Overall, another round of editing wouldâve helped.